Its status in our conversations hinged on the Ithaka described by the Greek poet C.P. Cavafy. A destination which would transform the travellers when they would reach it. An alchemical, tricky place, that drew you by your greed for riches, only to reveal to you that the only riches you could ever truly experience are spiritual ones. A transformative setting when we are as free and love each other as only brothers can, love each other, freely. A haven beyond haven. The home nesting inside the Matryoshka doll of the original home or nest.
* * *
Maybe I will visit Munich, one day.
The adjective comes close to describe you. I never could know what you would say next, although the tables would turn every now and then and you would respond to whatever outregeous claim I’d make for comic effect by saying, I knew you were going to say that. You were so witty. You are. So primal in your wisdom. You will be forever.
* * *
You made room for me, but I wanted more. You gave me space, and I true to my nature as artist tried only to expand it. In your last letters to me you said I came too close. I should not have come so close. If I had not come so close then none of the breaking would have happened.
Where does that leave me?
On the outside.
Doing everything solitarily when I need to do everything by you. Being everything I could be alone, not with you. Sitting on a chair by myself when I want to be sitting next to you.
You told me to change. You tried to change me. I tried to change. Why so frenetic? So many innocent china shops, ruined. Bridges, snapped in half.
What devastatingly naked event was being eluded, perhaps by both parties? What levels of global destruction (so to speak) did all the tension and friction between the adamancy of me and the Adam’s apple of you manage to generate?
But how could I change? I was old mountain. I was mountain old.
And you were too spirited. Too sprightly. Too profound. Too poised.
And I was all long gaps for long rivers, running.
* * *
Faeries followed you wherever you went when your name was Narcissus way back then in Ancient Rome where, above the fountains, you could see the angels getting a bit too competitive. You were successful in drowning them in the river but you forgot to save yourself. By the time I jumped in after you it was too late.
I was wrong about that, too.
I stared at green trees my whole life only to find myself opposite a green-eyed you seasons and years and holidays and several crucifixions and resurrections of Jesus Christ, countless burnings of effigies of Lazarus later, because I was stuck in Cyprus at the time, and our only form of entertainment were reenactments of the New Testament (Christian Orthodoxy). It got old, soon enough.
* * *
Among the memory of care, the fact that you did indeed as well care carrying me through the years. Across the votes and tears.
* * *
What was, your name, again? It kept changing. At the Old Vic theatre in London at the beginning of the twentieth century when I introduced myself to you you then introduced yourself to me as Handreas? Dorious? Floridias? Goosenbone? God knows. Where is God? Let us not go there.
Which is why when you are not here as you are not here my body aches like the primate and keens at the moon as the earliest calls to have echoed across the earth.
* * *
You once told me that I was stronger than that. That I could take on the void. That I could take on the ghosts. That they would take the gooseberries and
the goji berries from my palms.
I do not want that midlife anymore.